


POTUS

by nutalexfanfic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Agent lexa, F/F, Pining Clarke, TW: Violence, tw: anxiety, tw: guilt, tw: war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutalexfanfic/pseuds/nutalexfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is the president of the united states and struggling with a recent devastating but necessary political evil. Having bombed a city that resulted in the death of hundreds of people in exchange for the deaths of several terrorist leader, she deals with her guilt clashed with the praise of the government and country in the best way she knows how: alcohol, self-loathing and a lot of sarcasm. She has to stay sound though, and no one helps her do that better than steady and loyal Agent Lexa Woods, head of her personal security detail. Though with those green eyes, measured voice, wonderful body and uniquely kind and warm demeanor, Clarke has to wonder whether Agent Woods actually is helping her stay sound. Some days she certainly doesn't think so. Some day, Clarke can't stand to be around her and those days seem to be growing lately. But when she visits Moscow for an energy policy convention and everything that could possibly go wrong, does, she must try very quickly to set aside her issues, and her desires, and fight for her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	POTUS

**Author's Note:**

> *Zahartha is a made up country that has no counterpart in reality. It is not meant to be a reflection on any real culture, religion, ethnicity, nationality, etc. 
> 
> Moscow was chosen for the place of attack simply because I think it is a visually stunning city and one that I've always wanted to use as a setting and thought it would be fun to see how Clarke and Lexa attempt to navigate its streets.

* * *

 

Anyone who knows President Clarke Griffin knows that this is _not_ happening. It is nothing more than a moment of weakness, no, of _humanity_ in the privacy of her office while the rest of Capitol Hill dances the night away at some superfluous gala. Come morning, it will never be mentioned again.

 

She cringes at the thought of what Finn might say if he saw her like this, but if she’s being honest, the bottle of gin in her loose grip weighs far more heavily on her mind, presently. She chuckles as she lifts it to her mouth, sardonically amused that on the night of celebration specifically thrown in her honor for what the media is deeming “the greatest wartime political achievement in decades,” she is the most plastered she’s been since grad school, and just about as miserable too.

 

“Did you know the death toll is still rising? They’re still finding bodies. Weeks later.” Another self-loathing snort and she takes a gulp of the harsh, clear liquid and doesn’t flinch as it sears a burning path down her throat. She thinks that, maybe, just maybe, if she burns her throat raw enough times tonight, she might understand what is felt like for those people to burn in their homes.

 

“You did your duty.” The stiff soles of the black shoes resting against her hose-clad ones presses gently to emphasize the point.

 

“And I suppose you’re just doing yours right now too?”

 

“I go where you go.” The answer is so dutiful in and of itself it makes Clarke want to laugh, but she finds herself gritting her teeth to hold back a threatening surge of nausea instead. Sober, Clarke normally wouldn’t dare to look the head of her secret service protective detail in the eye so brazenly unless absolutely required, but with her blood verging dangerously close to mostly alcohol tonight, she lifts her head and studies away.

 

Agent Lexa Woods is beautiful and terrifying and, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say cold and hard. But Clarke did know better and she knows that Agent Woods is actually breathtakingly gentle, unusually kind and unsettlingly attentive. The agent walks with a confidence and assuredness that intimidates even the largest, toughest members of Clarke’s secret service, and in all of her years of being in office, she had never felt safer than when Lexa had been promoted to her lead.

 

Though, that was probably just the alcohol talking.  At least, that’s what she tells herself, because she is not allowed to have any kind of relationship with a member of her staff, _certainly_ not the head of her security. Not that she has thought about a relationship with Agent Woods, she has a little more self control that that, but the woman is attractive, undeniably so, and even the President of the United States is human.

 

She stares down at the bottle, already more than two-thirds empty, and lets her head fall back to the front of her desk with a thud and a sigh laced with matters far heavier than any one person could possibly be equipped to handle. She can see the headlines now, ‘President Griffin Found Drunk in Oval Office Night of Celebration Gala,’ and it’s almost enough to cause her to pull out her phone and dial Finn, warning him of the shit storm he may wake up to if anyone were to find her here, like this, with the present company.  Though, she’s never particularly liked her head of Public Relations and thinks perhaps this just might be the media disaster needed to cause his resignation. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

Agent Woods leans further back against the wall and hooks her finger into the collar of her tie, pulling it looser than it already was. “Ask away, Madam President.”

 

“Do you ever think about quitting?”

 

“No.” Her answer is so quick it makes Clarke snort and tap teasingly at the woman’s black dress shoe.

 

“You can be honest.”

 

Agent Woods taps back. It’s more playful than Clarke has ever seen her, and she wonders if maybe the agent had been swiping discreet sips of alcohol earlier at the gala from whatever secret alcoves she kept track of her while Clarke mingled. “I am always honest.”

 

“Always?” She can almost, _almost,_ see the mirth she’s desperate for in the rare and slight quirk of Lexa’s beautiful, plush lips. But it’s it’s gone so quickly it might as well have never happened.

 

“With you, yes. It’s my job.”

 

“Your job is to protect me.”

 

It’s unusual to see so much expression from the agent, but when Lexa awards her with a fully fledged, though still small, smile, she flutters and tries to commit the sequence leading up to it to memory, as if some perfect combination of words and moments might always lead to such treasures. She feels young and refreshingly simple here in her bare feet and slightly unzipped dress, gin bottle in her hand, intoxicated and pining after a beautiful woman as if she were in high school, not the leader of the free world who’d just ordered the deaths of hundreds of people in a drone strike.

 

She reminds herself of the number of terrorists it had eliminated in the process and takes another sip, a big one that scalds her throat and ignites her stomach. She both loves and hates it.  “I suppose I should be heading back to the East Room.” She says it really just to keep the conversation going, and makes no moves to actually go.

 

As if on cue, Agent Woods’ radio crackles and the agent seamlessly raises her cuff to her mouth and speaks. “Arkadia’s status unchanged.”

 

Clarke watches her with something far too close to desire and begins to feel overwhelmed. She’s surprised how this can feel simultaneously so new and familiar, though she supposes that while the novelty comes from the brazenness of the alcohol, the familiarity finds home in the fact that these feelings have nothing to do with the alcohol at all and are worn around the edges with use. She pushes herself up to her knees to stand, but it does the opposite effect of distracting her when she stumbles and Agent Woods is beside her in an instant with her hands on her hips and forearm, helping her to her feet.

 

“I’m fine,” she says, slightly harsher than she means, and hopes that the agent understands it’d been a long couple of months and an even longer night. Not everyone has the agent’s inhumanly threshold for patience. And sure enough, Agent Woods nods and immediately steps away to give her space. Clarke reminds herself to add “respectful” and “considerate” to her mental list of the agent’s appealing attributes. Then again, she thinks perhaps it would be better to just forget. Though she doubts Agent Woods would ever allow her to.

 

“Ready?” Lexa turns and murmurs something into her radio while Clarke presses her hands down the front of her dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

 

“How do I look?” She watches Lexa’s eyes sweep over her with something akin to nerves and tries to pretend she doesn’t know exactly why they’re there, exploding in her chest and stomach.

 

“May I?” Lexa waits for her permission, then circles behind her and takes hold of Clarke’s dress zipper. If Clarke weren’t so drunk, she’d worry whether the agent notices the way she leaves a trail of goose bumps after every slight brush of her fingers on the sensitive skin of her back as she drags the zipper upwards into place.  “Now you’re ready.” Lexa raises her radio again and smiles at her. “Arkadia is on the move. Inbound, five minutes.”

 

 

 

She doesn’t make it even halfway down the hall before she stumbles and just barely steadies herself against the wall. It’s Agent Woods’ hands around her waist again that _actually_ steadies her and she wonders if the sensation of her skin warming is still the alcohol or something she should start worrying about again.

 

She wishes it were the alcohol, because she’s pretty sure if it were, she could drink away the loneliness that pervades her body and hugs her bones after Lexa helps her into bed and leaves, promising to explain to Finn that she fell ill and apologizes for her early retire. It feels almost as soul-crushing to watch the agent close the door as does the number in her dreams that ticks higher and higher until it reaches the total population count of the planet and she is left standing alone atop a mountain of charred bodies.

 

The same dream has plagued her every night, really, every time she closes her eyes since the ‘Zahartha* Incident,’ but she’s taken by surprise when, tonight, the alcohol in her system gives it new, sick and dark twists that jolt her awake with a yelp and sticky sheen of sweat. When her eyes adjust and she peers around the room, she can see the two small shadows of feet belonging to the secret service agent on guard outside her door. It should be a comfort, and in some ways it is, but mostly it makes her chest pulse with a dull ache that longs to be soothed by inviting the agent in for some distracting company. It would even be enjoyable still if it wasn’t Lexa who almost never worked the overnight shifts, though certainly not as soothing.

 

She falls asleep contemplating ways to invite the agent in without seeming as weak as she feels, but doesn’t know it until she is suddenly conscious again and light is pouring in through the windows. After a long moment of unsettling reflection, she peels herself out of bed and into the shower with a searing pressure headache that makes her think her brain may come bursting out through her forehead any second—and perhaps that wouldn’t be so terrible if her thoughts were to go with it.

 

She talks to herself more these days, she notices. Runs through her schedule as she rolls her head around under the hot water, debates through any and all possible arguments against her upcoming bill proposals as she lathers, and talks herself down from the infant panic attacks when she thinks of the Zahartha as she rinses and repeats.

 

Though nothing is quite as reassuring as opening the bedroom door to Lexa’s quiet, but attentive face the next morning, the agent’s palm outstretched offering two Advils and a glass of water. She cringes and colors in embarrassment at the memory of the previous night, but takes the pills gratefully and gulps them down quickly when Finn strides up, drops a newspaper into her hand with a wordless glare and walks away. She only has time to catch the words “President” and “Disappears” and “Own Gala” before her Deputy Assistant to the President of Scheduling and Administration, essentially her assistant to all things administrative, strolls up in her typical black pencil skirt and square rimmed glasses and hands her the day’s schedule which she gratefully slides over top the newspaper still prickling her hands.  

 

“The Speaker’s car broke down on the way here, so we have to push back the budgeting meeting to nine. In the meantime, the vice president would like a word with you on line one. Also, here’s the proposed itinerary for the the Moscow Energy Convention, should you plan to attend.” Octavia Blake, youngest member of the executive staff, rattles off item after item like it’s her weekly grocery list and Clarke does her best to catch everything the first time around.

 

“Madam President, I have to remind you of my adamant objections to your attendance at the convention. It is not imperative that you be there and the high security risk is unnecessary, especially so soon after Zahartha.” Marcus Kane, her Director of Secret Service steps seemingly out of nowhere and hands her report after report of insurgent activity in the area.

 

She gives them an honest glance and would be lying if she said the recent growth in activity didn’t make her nervous, but she needs this convention. She’s holding onto its possibility for good as if it will balance out all the bad of the past few months; like it’s the only thing keeping her from losing her mind, and it just might be. “Agent Woods,” she turns to Lexa with a playful smile but trusting eyes, “what say you?”

 

Lexa takes the reports and sifts through them while Clarke tries not to be so obvious in her staring. She catches glimpses of broad shoulders, tan skin that pops against crisp white cuffs, powerful looking legs and green, green eyes in her discreet perusal of the woman, and when she feels the shame tint her neck and cheeks, she reminds herself it’s normal to long for connection, that she is human, and that desire is normal and healthy.

 

Just not when it’s for the head of your private security detail.

 

“I think that it’s doable,” Agent Woods concludes as she rearranges the reports back into a neat stack, “But we will need the time to set up the necessary security measures, scope out the venue and do some reconnaissance on activity in the area. Otherwise, I believe we can make it work, Madam President.”

 

Clarke smiles at her professionally and appreciatively as if she hadn’t just been wandering what it would feel like to wake up to Lexa in her bed instead of in her doorway every morning. She takes back the reports only to hand them back to Kane and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry so much, Marcus, you’re starting to go grey. Now, Ms. Blake, you said the vice president is on line one?” Business, back to business, safe territory that required a little less heart and a little more head, just the way she likes it.

 

Octavia nods and talks her through the rest of the day as the small group makes its way through the corridors. In the main hall, Clarke stops to wave and briefly address a hoard of eager looking citizens on a special White House tour, and bathes in the smiles and enthusiasm they greet her with. It is enlivening and reassuring and just what she needs to get her through it all, or at the very least, through the day.

 

She can feel Lexa growing ever so slightly restless beside her when she lingers too long and shakes too many hands, and knows it’s time to go when the agent places a barely-there palm to her lower back and ushers her onwards.  She tries to ignore the way the warmth of Lexa’s hand seems to tattoo itself to her skin, persisting even several minutes later.

 

Out of her party that grows every time she passes a new office and an official has something to address, only Agent Woods and Octavia accompany her inside the Oval Office once they arrive.  When she glances down at the newspaper still in her hands, though, she sighs and sends Octavia to find Finn and schedule a press conference. It leaves her alone with Lexa, a situation more common than not, but today she finds the agent’s presence stifling. She thinks it might have a little to do with the last time they were in this office alone together, not even twenty-four hours earlier, dressed down, inebriated (well, she certainly was) and emotionally raw (though again, perhaps that was just her). When Lexa bends down and grabs Clarke’s discarded heels off the floor from the night before and shoots her a small, but knowing smile, she knows it has _everything_ to do with the night before.

 

Choosing to ignore the grinning agent, she rounds her desks and plops down into the chair worrying about what the vice president could possibly want to talk about over the phone when they would be seeing each other in an hour at the meeting. Her hand hovers over the phone for a moment before she commits and lifts it from the receiver.

 

“Would you like me to wait outside, ma’am?”

 

She looks up and stares blankly for a moment, still in her thoughts. Lexa. Lexa is speaking, asking her a question. She blinks. “No, that’s okay, Agent Woods, please, sit.”

 

Lexa nod, but continues to stand and moves to stand beside the door of the office to give her some unrequested privacy. Clarke would normally smile at the agent’s, once again, thoughtful consideration, but her mind is already back on the phone call. She takes a breath, then dials in.

 

“Vice President Pike, hello.”

_“Madam President, thank you for taking my call. I wanted to talk to you about Moscow.”_

“The Energy Convention?”

 

“ _Yes. It has come to my attention that there are several world leaders who believe you will not show. I can assure you that I will be there, so the US will have representation in the discussion, but I would like to know your current standing. There is heavy lobbying for new energy policy in Capitol Hill right now, as you know, and an appearance at this convention could certainly do wonders for re-election next year.”_

Clarke rubs at her head, already annoyed that a topic that could be discussed later is taking up her time now.  “Rest easy, Charles.  I will be doing everything in my power to be at the convention. It is only a matter of working out the logistics of security and keeping an eye on activity in the region in the week leading up to it. In fact, I would encourage you to take a look at Director Kane’s reports if you haven’t already done so. There is some alarming data there to consider.”

 

_“I trust in our team, Madam President. I’m sure the activity has to do with Zarthura and would not be surprised to see it drop in the next few days. It has only been a few months after all and the insurgents are most likely taking this time to regroup. Clusters in the region is only natural.”_

 

With a little more discussion Clarke deems both unnecessary and unusual, she tries to push aside the strange tingling of suspicion in the pit of her stomach when she ends the call and chalks it up to Pike’s normal ego-fueled, manipulation tactics.

 

When Lexa opens the door after a knock and steps aside to allow Finn in, something else taunts her stomach and it’s far heavier. She holds up her hand before he can even speak, seeing the frustration in his eyes, and empties her lungs in a charged exhalation in an attempt to stay calm. “I know. I know. But we can spin this to our favor. We tell the press I was sick, wanted to retire early to rest up for the Moscow Convention, and we’ll get both the lobbyists off our back and good energy policy buzz for next year.”

 

“It was your own gala, Clarke.” Finn’s voice seethes and its moments like these where she realizes the grave mistake of allowing someone so familiar with her, a classmate since since Yale, onto her staff.  

 

“Finn,” she warns, having done so enough times she needn’t even clarify.

 

“Sorry. _Madam President_. But it is not so simple as a doctor’s sick note. We are not in grade school anymore! We don’t just get a pass to go off and drink whenever times get tough. You are the president of the United States, for god’s sake!” What bothers her most is not his tone or blatant lack of respect, it’s that he is not wrong. She should be ashamed of herself, sneaking off in the middle of the evening, disappearing from an event in her honor, to drown her guilt and consciousness in alcohol as if she were sixteen again. As if she didn’t know exactly what she were signing up for all those Novermbers ago.

 

“Lower your voice,” Lexa interjects, cool and calm but menacing in its own way.

 

Finn glares, but takes a breath.

 

“Look, I understand,” Clarke says, capitalizing on the momentary silence, “But this is why I hired you. Call a press conference, I will explain, apologize, and it will be old news by the time the convention rolls around.”

 

“Just be thankful it was Agent Woods who found you and not, god forbid, some wandering press member or residential staff with a big mouth,” he snaps.

 

“Agent Woods did not _find_ me, Finn. I was not hiding. I excused myself to my office and she followed, as is her job.”

 

“Perhaps, Agent Woods should do a _better_ job, then. Allowing the President of the Unites States to sneak off and do nothing about it.” He scoffs. “Your image is just as much a part of her job as anything else, why not do anything to protect _that?_ ” He rounds on the agent, but Lexa stands straight as collected as ever except for her eyes that dare him to continue.

 

“With all do respect, sir,” she starts, emphasizing the ‘sir’ just enough so that someone who knows her, someone like Clarke, would realize she had no respect for the man, but not enough to raise questions about her professionalism, “my job is to protect her life and ensure her comfort. I have sworn to keep her from bodily harm at any and all costs and ensure her safety at all times and will always be loyal to her needs above all else and anyone else. _That_ is my job. If she leaves the room, I leave the room.  What she does in her private life, and the decisions she makes are not for me to discuss, contest or judge unless they have a direct impact on her well-being. That, I believe, is _your_ job.” Lexa unfolds her arms and looks past the man at Clarke.  “If you are done, Madam President, the Secretary has arrived and the budgeting meeting can begin whenever you’re ready.”

 

Clarke smiles at her, warm and full of gratitude and affection. She nods and tries to gather herself as quickly as possible, but can’t feeling that there was perhaps a touch more possessiveness in Agent Wood’s voice than her sworn duty called for. And that made her head swim and her reaction stutter. But perhaps she’d imagined hearing it and that makes everything worse.  It makes her but swell with happiness all the same and it does things to her she’d rather not acknowledge to hear the agent talk so passionately about caring for her life. Though, as they walk side by side down the corridor to the conference room, she tries to remind herself that everything Lexa had said is technically in the agent’s job description.  

 

 

The basket ball games they share on weekends are certainly not, though. Clarke groans as Agent Woods scores yet another basket on her from the free-throw line and calls it quits for a moment to grab water. “You could at least let the game start before ending it,” she teases as she collapses onto the bleachers.

 

“With all do respect, Madam President, may I ask why you insist on playing a game you are positively atrocious at?”

 

She laughs at the agent’s usual but always refreshing bluntness and concedes the touché with a shrug and playful whip of her towel to the agent’s legs. “I’m sure everyone is atrocious when they’re playing you. NCAA athlete and lead scorer of the Navy SEAL’s pick-up league.”

 

Lexa sits down next to her in a tan SEALS fitness t-shirt that clings to her sweaty biceps, and squirts water into her mouth in so graceful a manner it almost looks like a sport itself. “You can hardly count a couple years on a base in Afghanistan as a legitimate league. Most of the boys couldn’t dribble if their life depended on it. All football kind of guys,” she says deepening and rounding out her voice with thudding consonants as if to prove a point.

 

Clarke laughs. “That’s not a very nice way to talk about your fellow soldiers, now is it?” Clarke means it to be a tease, but before it’s even out of her mouth she remembers just how literal and prideful her lead agent is. Before she can capture the words and shove them back into her mouth, she sees shame flicker through the green eyes now cast to the floor.  She berates herself as she sit next to this woman who seems to literally wilt before her eyes, and the urge to turn back time has never been stronger.

 

“Forgive me, Madam President, you’re right,” Lexa murmurs, “that was wrong of me and I apologize.” She speaks with a guilt Clarke recognizes on a cellular level and it aches and makes her kick herself harder, hoping it will leave a metaphorical bruise to remind her to keep her mouth shut next time.

 

“Lexa,” she tests a tentative hand on the agent’s knee and when the woman doesn’t flinch, she slides it up a little further and gives the firm muscle a quick and gentle squeeze, “I was just teasing. Please don’t repeat this to _anyone,_ but between you and me, I know exactly what you mean. Soldiers, particularly the football wielding ones, can be… _difficult_ to get along with.”   

 

Lexa doesn’t smile, but Clarke figures the curt nod she gets is enough for her to know that Lexa realizes she held no judgement and had no desire to admonish her.  Her watch beeps and she rolls her eyes, never hating her busy schedule more than now that it is cutting into her ability to apologize. The time she’d allotted for their weekly session comes crashing to an end with Octavia running outside to meet her with an urgent phone call from so-n’-so about such-n’-such. Thought, luckily for Clarke, the agenda is busy enough to sufficiently distract her from the way Agent Woods seemed harder and more reserved for the rest of the day.

 

She had gotten so wrapped up in reading proposals after dinner, in fact, that she hadn’t even thought about the incident again until she was running her hands over her body in the shower. When her hands hit her quads, not nearly as firm as Agent Woods,’ she thinks back to the moment and aches all over again at the shame that was so quick to cloud the agent’s eyes with one fleeting comment. It makes her wonder what kind of childhood she led as a military brat, or what it was like to be in the Navy SEALS, so much discipline and pressure and judgement. She longs to know the inner workings of Lexa’s mind as the hot water streams down her back. Wonders about the agent’s secrets and passions and fondest memories. She has Lexa’s file memorized almost word for word at this point, but there is nothing about how such a sweet and wonderful and caring person could be so quick to shame and so serious all at the same time.

 

The thoughts take her all the way through her shower, into her silk mid-thigh nightie, and into the sheets. And now she lays there, staring up at the ceiling in her bed much too large for one person with her thoughts of Lexa all used up and other darker thoughts threatening to come crashing in. When she can’t take it anymore, she slips out of bed and throws on her robe.

 

As she creaks open the heavy door to her room, a bearded and warmly concerned face leans into the opening and smiles. “Everything okay, Madam President?”

 

“Yes, Gustus, fine. Just have a sudden need for midnight tea.”

 

“Is there something wrong with your kitchen?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

 

“I don’t have an iron kettle up here, and I have a craving for some old fashioned style tea. Gives it a nuttier flavor.” It doesn’t, but she needs the stroll in the moonlit halls, knowing it will calm her and hopefully lull her enough to try to sleep.

 

“I’ll have it sent to you right away, ma’am.”

 

She shakes her head and slips out into the hallway, quickly wrapping her robe around the exposed swatch of skin on her thigh that peeks out when she takes a large step across the threshold. “No, no, that’s okay. I could use the stroll to the kitchen.”

 

“Are you sure? It’s no problem.” Gustus raises his radios as if to emphasize just how easy it would be. And its exactly why Clarke once again shakes her head and waves him off. It drives her crazy sometimes—most times—being waited on hand and foot. It makes her feel even less human than she already does. She understands her role, understands her responsibilities and what she’d signed on for. But she’s thirty-five, the youngest president in America’s history and quite lonely in the alienation that comes with her position. She wonders how crazy her advisory staff would think her if she brought up the adoption sites she’d curiously browsed through in the dark privacy of her room the other night. She figures that taking a late night walk to the kitchen after hours would be an acceptable compromise.

 

“Really. It’s okay, I’d like to do it.” She turns and begins to walk, but stops when she senses him behind her. “You can stay, Gustus. It’s just the kitchen.”

 

“It’s protocol, ma’am. You know that.”

 

She nods. “I do, but what if I never came out and you never needed to follow?” She winks at him.

 

“Ma’am—“

 

“Why don’t you just radio that I’m on my way to the kitchen? There are at least three of you on the way, it can be like a game of telephone. And then you’ll know I’m safe.”

 

Gustus considers it, she can see it in the way his brow wrinkles and lips purse. She knows he’s tripping up on the new stringent war-time protocols, but it’s suffocating. Being watched twenty-four-seven, followed to every room, every move documented, makes her skin crawl and crowds her head space. Her body throbs for the quiet, private time of the night and she practically salivates over the thought of plopping herself up on the large kitchen island to sip on her tea, made all by herself, just the way she likes it. “Please, Gustus. I’m going stir crazy in here, and it’s just to the kitchen.”

 

He sighs and softens. “Just to the kitchen?”

 

She holds up her pinky and they’re both reminded of just how young and fun-loving she is. Or at least once was. Maybe it’s just a few peeks here and there now. “Just to the kitchen.”

 

She thinks he may be in the shadows as she pads down the hall, but if his invisible presence is what keeps the guards she nods to on the way from stopping her, then she figures she can let it slide. She simply doesn’t have the energy to explain to them the inexplicable burning desire in her to be alone and do things herself, so it’s a relief not to have any questions. She figures even if she did have the energy to explain her urges, they may never understand. Then again, she hums to herself, they’re here and alone in the dim lighting of the White House in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of protecting someone they don’t really know. It anyone knew about isolation… She makes it a point to smile a little warmer at the next guard she passes, hoping he can see the appreciation in it.

 

The industrial kitchen is pitch black without any windows, and slightly terrifying, but it’s not an unwelcome emotion—certainly one she feels she deserves right now—and leaves the lights off except for the one industrial pendent light hanging over the island. Following her desire to a tee, determined to enjoy the moment of freedom to its full potential, she places the kettle on the stove and hops up onto the island to wait, her feet swinging back and forth in full contentment. The stainless steel top is cold, but refreshing. She sits on her hands to take a bit of the edge off and stares at the white subway tile lining the walls, wondering for a brief moment how similar they are to the ones Lincoln or Adams may have stared at. She traces imaginary paths in the grout lines, too tired to distract herself with intentional thought, but needing something to keep her mind from wandering to Zahartha.

 

It’s quiet and private and mind-numbing—exactly what she needs in this moment, so she feels the infuriation radiate in her _toes_ when she hears footsteps on the tile floor and a small throat clearing behind her. She takes a split-second moment to collect herself, breathing deeply through her nose and rolling her eyes behind closed lids, before she turns. Though, when she finds Agent Woods staring at her, the anger immediately slips away and it’s then that she realizes it’s not that she didn’t want _any_ company, it’s that she wanted _specific_ company or none at all.

 

Her mouth is formed for an “L” when she goes to speak, but corrects herself quickly before sound can escape. It’s just that Lexa seems so soft somehow in this light at this late hour with an intimacy that invited first names. She’s still in a suit, radio on her hip, ear piece and wire perfectly in place, guns all in invisible but convenient places, but it’s the the novelty of the situation that makes her seem so open. ‘Lexa’ would just feel so natural to say, though Clarke’s life rarely felt natural. She snaps her mouth closed, then rephrases. “Agent Woods. What are you doing here?”

 

The agent gives her the faintest of smiles and crosses her arms, casually. “I was in the north hall and heard Arkadia was on the move towards the kitchen.” Perhaps it’s the strange light or maybe she’s more tired than she thought, but Clarke could _swear_ Lexa winks at her as she taps her ear piece, “came to check in. Everything okay?”

 

Clarke smiles and nods her over. “Yeah, fine. Just wanted some tea. Want some?”

 

“I’m on duty.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes jovially and hops off the counter. “It’s tea, Agent Woods, not gin. _This time_.” She snorts to herself and grabs the kettle off the stove and pours two cups. “Milk?”

 

“Madam—“

 

“It’s Clarke, please. I feel like an old lady when you guys call me that.”

 

Lexa frowns. “Would you like it changed? I can talk to Mr. Collins and he can send out a memo.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine. It’s just still strange to hear it after hours.”

 

Lexa chuckles and reluctantly takes the mug Clarke hands her. She walks around the island and leans up against the countertop facing, leaning against it to face Clarke. “It’s been four years, M--Clarke.”  Clarke can tell it feels weird on the agent’s tongue by the way her face contorts ever so slightly, but she loves the way it sounds. Lexa’s voice is sweet and gentle, just a few notches above a whisper, and caresses all the curves in her name in just the right ways.

 

“Yeah, well. It’s been ‘Clarke’ for thirty-five years, so I think you can cut me some slack, Agent.”

 

Lexa ponders jokingly and shrugs, “fair.”

 

“How’s your tea?” Clarke hops back up onto the island and stares inquisitively at the agent over top her mug.

 

“I haven’t tried it.”

 

Clarke laughs, finding Lexa’s oblivious candor unbelievably endearing. “I know. That was me hinting.”

 

Lexa’s silent “Oh” brings a soft and amused smile to Clarkes face who watches in anticipation as the agent brings the mug up. Lexa immediately closes her eyes when she inhales and let’s out an involuntary hum. It sends something warm through Clarke’s chest that has nothing to do with the heat of her own tea. “Jasmine?”

 

Clarke nods a gentle smile still on her face, utterly transfixed by the way Lexa seems transported, her face falling into something soft and young, and something entirely foreign: vulnerable.

 

“My brother used to make this for me when I had nightmares. I haven’t had it since,” Lexa mutters. She doesn’t need to elaborate for Clarke to know that she means _since he’d died_. She’d read her file, and knows Lexa knows that. Still, it makes something grip hard around her heart for the usually stoic agent now incredibly human in front of her, and she feels it in her throat.

 

“It’s incredibly calming, isn’t it?” She whispers.

 

Lexa nods and takes several sips and Clarke loves the way the serious agent tries to hide the enthusiasm, knowing Lexa isn’t one for outward emotion, but fails to keep it from her glimmering eyes.

 

“My dad used to make it.”

 

“Senator Griffin.”

 

 It’s not a question but Clarke nods anyways, sadness tinting her smile. “We’d stay up all night going over bill proposals together. Even when I was a kid he used to talk me through even the most complicated ones.”

 

“His death was a tragedy, Clarke. I’m sorry.” 

 

“Aren’t they all?”

 

“Sorry? Well yes, I’d assume most people—“

 

“No. I meant tragic.”

 

“Oh.” Lexa takes a sip of her tea and her brow folds in in thought. “No, I don’t think so. Death can be beautiful. Sacrifice, for instance.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. Spoken like a true soldier. “Death hurts.”

 

“Not all death. Sometimes it’s quiet and quick. Sometimes you don’t even know it’s happening.”

 

“I don’t mean for the ones dying.” _For those left behind._ It goes unspoken, but she sees Lexa’s understanding in her eyes.

 

“It’s better to hurt than to have never had someone to hurt over, though. Yes?”

 

Clarke wishes it were that simple. That romantic. “Not all deaths are yours to hurt over. Sometimes you have no right to mourn their loss, and yet…”

 

Lexa pushes off the counter and moves like she wants to comfort her, and Clarke wishes she would. Their touches are fleeting and rare, accidents more often than not, and it’s not enough. She longs for the softness of Lexa’s lingering touch, so tender and warm. She’s addicted to the way her palm rests so gently, but sure, and warm on her back when she’s ushering her somewhere. The way the agent’s fingers brush against the inside of her wrist to hold her back when it’s too crowded or too dark. Most of all, she misses the feeling of Lexa’s breath against her neck, the weight of her body pressing down into hers. It feels like years since the assassination attempt had happened and the crucial, last minute tackle that’d gained Lexa the promotion. Then Clarke reminds herself that it _had_ been years. Almost three. And then she wonders how the time had managed to slip by her. Lexa still feels like such a stranger, and yet, her closest friend at the same time. It’s the trust, she figures. Or maybe the constant dreams about her. One of the two, or maybe both.

 

Lexa steps towards her, but doesn’t touch. Clarke knows that the agent doesn’t know how to approach her in this manner, all titles and roles and pretenses dropped. They’re just two women sharing a midnight cup of tea, and Clarke wants to believe that the informality will invite the comforting touch she longs to feel. “You did your duty,” the agent finally says and Clarke sinks knowing that’s all she’s going to get. When Lexa places the mug on the island and brings her radio to her mouth, Clarke closes her eyes. She will always be the president and Lexa the ever dutiful agent. Nothing more.

 

“Arkadia is the same. Traveling soon.” Lexa turns back to her and nods. “You should get back to bed, Madam President. I’ll walk you back.”

 

The shift is jarring, but not unexpected. This was the game and the perpetual result. The give and the take that never really did either and always leaves her reeling, desperate for more. She often wonders how Lexa feels in these moments, wonders if she wants just as bad as she is wanted. Clarke feels guilty for hoping, but she is also too tired to care. Tired of hurting, tired of pining, tired of the weight of the world on her lonely shoulders, tired of widening fissure inside of her. Tired from the three years of poor sleep. She yawns and twists and raises her mug back to her lips. She takes a sip, and tastes nothing because it’s empty, but Lexa doesn’t know that, and suddenly she just wants to be alone again. “I’d like to finish my tea. I can walk myself back. Thank you, Agent.”

 

“Madam-“

 

Clarke levels her with a stare she normally reserves for the Oval Office. “I will be fine. It’s a two-minute walk back upstairs.”  She almost revels in the way the wrestle inside of the agent evident on her face seems to verge on painful. She wants to not be alone in this quiet desperation that permeates the days with a dull ache and flares into searing throbs in her chest and throat from time to time. Times like these. “Please, continue your rounds.” Clarke gestures to the door with her hand, and doesn’t even try to smile when the agent nods before leaving.

 

She knows she shouldn’t feel resentful. Lexa is not hers. She is not obligated to comfort her or to want her. She is not her friend, nor her ally. She is the hired muscle. Her bullet proof vest. She is not obligated to like her or help. _To love her._

 

Her minds pauses. It’s not a realization per say, because it’s not necessarily new. Even though she’d been calling it something more akin to desire or infatuation, these feelings were months old. Perhaps even a year old, and clear as day. Still, it slams the air from her lungs to hear herself think it so bluntly, and it hurts. It hurts when she knows that the things that feel so good about the agent— the attentive eyes, the protective touches, the reassuring and calming voice, the confidence and brawn, the sharp and strategic mind—are all things done out of duty and can never be hers.

 

There are the other things too, though, she reminds herself. The muscular thighs, the broad shoulders, the plush pink lips and the strong hands, but mostly it’s the gentle smile, the commanding walk and the possessive nature. She feels something spark deep and low inside of her. When she hops off the counter, she feels it tingle down between her legs. With an eye roll, she sighs and thinks that maybe it isn’t love at all. Maybe she’s just strung out.

 

When she passes Lexa on the way back to her room and the agent smiles and nods at her, she knows it’s a worse excuse than the alcohol, though not entirely inaccurate.

 

Gustus smiles at her like he’d never left his post outside her room and she lets him think she’s that naïve because frankly she’s too aggravated to care. Whether she’s more aggravated at herself or at Lexa, she doesn’t know, which only makes it worse.

 

She’s warm and flustered by the time she crawls back into bed, and she curses the sequence of events that ruined what was supposed to be a midnight foray with the peace and quiet. Now, she’s anything but. She curses her body, curses her mind, curses Lexa’s impeccable face and soothing voice, curses the political decisions she’d had to make lately that felt like they were ripping her apart form the inside out.

 

She tries to keep Lexa from her thoughts as she closes her eyes. She does everything she can think of, counts sheep, goes through her schedule, practices her debates. She thinks the last one may be working until her mind drifts and she sees green eyes swim into view. They’re the prettiest green Clark has ever seen, always have been. She hates herself when she focuses on those eyes and her hand skims down her stomach and past the waistband of her underwear. Her eye roll back in relief and her lips part, a name dancing on the tip of her tongue. She doesn’t say it, just clamps her teeth together instead, promising herself she has some shred of will power left. When she slips a finger inside of herself, she groans, biting down hard on her lip to keep the desire in check. She won’t say her name, but when she begins pushing slowing in and out, she sees that green again and whimpers despite herself. _Fuck it,_ she thinks. _Fuck me,_ she adds with a silent, sardonic chuckle that gets interrupted when her thumb drifts upwards and she gasps.

 

_"Lexa."_

 

She’s too far gone to even roll her eyes.

  

 

 

 


End file.
